


Spin and Burn

by Musyc



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Adultery, Affairs, Cheating, Community: hp_kinkfest, Draco Malfoy - character, Established Relationship, F/M, HP: Epilogue Compliant, Hermione Granger - character, Infidelity, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-30
Updated: 2012-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-30 09:05:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musyc/pseuds/Musyc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every time, she tells herself it is the <em>last</em> time.</p>
<p>Every time, she knows she's lying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spin and Burn

She can't remember how it began and she doesn't know when it will end. She doesn't want it to end. Her adolescence was full of danger and adventure and she thinks it twisted something inside of her. She thinks it broke something in her mind, in her soul, leaving her unable to be satisfied with a quiet life. Unable to be content with her life and her marriage, with simple, safe pleasures. When she fucks Draco, she has the heat she craves.

Every time, she tells herself it is the _last_ time.

Every time, she knows she's lying.

She closes the door behind her and slips off her rings, the gold wedding band and the small chip of a solitaire. She tucks them into the inner pocket of her cloak, burying them far into the depths. The room is dark, but she knows her way around it, knows every creak in the floor and every step around the furnishings. She tosses her cloak over a chair and kicks her shoes off beneath it, then crosses the room to the windows. She grabs the heavy drapes with both hands, crushing the material in her fists.

When she flings the drapes open, moonlight fills the room, coating all its contents with silver. She turns and the room looks like an antique photograph, shades of dark and light without color. There is one spot of red in the shadows by the cold fireplace, one small, glowing brightness in the dark. 

Draco draws hard on his cigarette and exhales smoke, his pale hair as bright as the moon outside. He lifts his head and his eyes gleam like mirrors. He waits, silent and still, watching her. She knows from long experience that he will not speak, will not move, until she steps forward. Until she touches him.

Until she once again consciously, deliberately makes this choice.

She watches the glowing tip of his cigarette as he takes a long drag, as the smoke wreathes his hand and floats past his head. She knows that he will taste of cloves, that she will be able to lick the flavor from his lips and suck it from his tongue. When his mouth moves over her body, she imagines him painting her with smoke, searing her with heat. Each of his kisses burns, filling her blood with a wild and desperate need.

Hermione steps forward.

She takes the sides of her skirt and inches it up, raising the hem to mid-thigh. Draco's eyes never leave her face but she knows that he is taking in every motion. She lifts her skirt enough to spread her legs wide and straddle him in the wingback chair, her knees pressed into the thick padding behind his hips. The leather is cold against her skin and Draco's thighs are hot between her legs.

She loosens the knot of his tie and his eyelids flutter as she strokes down the length of the dark oxblood silk, her nails scraping over the subtle lines that run in silver threads. Draco lifts his cigarette to his mouth again and Hermione takes it from his hand. She wraps her lips around the end and inhales deeply, the paper burning away with sparks and crackles. Holding her breath, she crushes the cigarette out in a tray at Draco's elbow.

He arches his brows as she leans forward. She grabs his chin and kisses him, their mouths pressed together so tightly that none of the smoke escapes into the air. She slides her tongue over his and licks the roof of his mouth. She sinks her teeth into his bottom lip and pulls hard. Harder, until she feels his chest twitching under her hand.

When she lifts her head, he exhales smoke.

They sit in silence for a few moments, eyes locked, bodies still. She waits, her fingers twisting in his collar, crumpling the starched points. She will always make the first move, but she will always make him say the first word.

He settles his hands on her waist. His fingers move against the small of her back; his thumbs rub over the arch of her hips. He licks his lips, tongue moving slow, pausing at the spot where she'd bitten him. "Hermione," he says. His voice rolls through her like thunder, a low and deep rumble that seems to come from miles away. It thrums along her bones and tickles at her nerves.

He slides his arms full around her and she rises on her knees to press close. His head nestles into the space between her breasts. The material of her shirt is a thin, tightly knitted wool, and she can feel the heat of his breath through it. He rocks his head and kisses the inner curve of each breast. Hermione threads her fingers through his hair, clutching at the back of his skull. Beneath her palm, between her fingers, his hair is soft, as fine and pale as the strands of a web.

They're caught in their own web, she knows. A web of secrets and misdirection, of unsaid words and silent looks. It is a web made of moonlight and shadows, of kisses flavored with cloves and fires in their blood. A web that tears apart at dawn and is rebuilt with the smallest brush of hands as they pass on the street.

Draco tips his head back and Hermione cups his jaw, her thumbs brushing his cheekbones. She bends to kiss the tip of his nose before climbing off his lap. Without looking back, she heads for the large bed in the corner of the room. Her shirt hits the floor behind her and she shakes out her hair, biting her lip as it twitches across her back.

There was a time when she dressed to titillate him. Lace and satin for him to fondle, dipping necklines and rising hems for him to admire. Now she doesn't bother. Now she dresses to undress quickly, without the hooks and clasps and ties of expensive lingerie. She steps out of her skirt, wriggles out of her knickers, shrugs out of her bra, all in seconds. She wants to be down to her skin, ready for him without pretense. 

He doesn't need to cajole or coax, to take a cautious path. She has no interest in making him build a storm within her in slow seduction; she wants to throw herself into the lightning. 

Once they are in the room, once she kisses him, once he speaks her name, their actions are as inevitable as the tides. 

Draco stands by the darkened fireplace to strip, his clothes folded in a neat pile on the seat of the chair, his polished shoes pushed beneath it and aligned with the edge. He moves through a beam of moonlight as he approaches the bed, and she feels her heart beat faster. It's passion she feels, but not entirely for sex. Not entirely physical. It's a passion born from what he represents. Dangerous, destructive desires, as heated as a roaring volcano.

Draco slips into the bed and spreads his hand over her stomach. She lays her hand atop his and pretends she can't feel the cold platinum band of his ring. She ignores his ring, his wife. He never sees her rings, her husband. She never lets herself think of what that means. 

His fingers flex and curl against her stomach, and Hermione spreads her legs. He cups her and his fingers slide into her cunt immediately. He bends his head over her throat, mouthing her pulse in a vain effort at stifling a groan. Hermione knows it always startles him, how easily she gets wet for him, and she revels in it. Sometimes she stands outside the door for a minute before walking in, her skirt hiked to her waist and her fingers circling her clit until her thighs are sticky. 

When he can smell her arousal before he's even touched her, his eyes _burn_.

Draco dips his head to her breast and draws her nipple into his mouth. He sucks on it, rolling it between his lips in rhythm with the slide and thrust of his fingers inside her. Hermione arches her back and cants her hips, silently demanding more. He grinds against her side, his cock rubbing her hip, leaving a thin trail of pre-come on her skin.

Hermione wriggles her hand between them and wraps her fingers around his cock to pump the length of it. Her thumb slides over the tip, presses into the tiny slit, circles the thick ridge. She traces the slope of the head and rubs into the shallow dip. Draco holds her nipple between his teeth and inhales with a hiss as his cock throbs in her grasp.

She tugs at him, unwilling to wait. She's waited for days since their last night, and that is far too long. Tossing her head on the pillow, she growls. "Draco. Now."

He shifts. He draws out of her and moves over her. His cock rubs against the slick folds of her body and Hermione plants her feet beside his thighs to lift her hips. Draco balances on one elbow as he guides his cock into her body. Hermione sucks her lips between her teeth, holding back a moan, but the amusement in Draco's eyes makes her effort a token one at best. She digs her nails into his shoulders in punishment, though it only spurs him on.

He puts his weight on his hands and slowly pulls out of her, sliding out to the very tip, until her cunt is clenching as if she can pull him back in. Draco smiles and lifts his brows. 

Hermione recognizes the dark heat in that smile.

She braces her hands on the wall behind her, barely in time before Draco slams into her, his bollocks slapping against her arse. She shrieks, one strangled cry, then all she can do is groan as he fucks her. He drives into her, hard and fast, and she wraps her legs around his waist to force him deeper.

He drops to his elbows and shoves his hands under her shoulders, gripping her so hard she knows she'll have the purple bruises of his fingers in the morning. She wraps her arms around him, slides her hands up his back, hot and dappled with sweat already. His fringe sticks to his forehead and he shakes his head to loosen it.

Hermione pushes his hair back for him, then cups his cheek. For just a moment, he pauses, tipping his head into her hand. He closes his eyes and for that one heartbeat he looks so content that she can't breathe. He kisses her palm and for that moment, she wants to draw him down into her arms and sleep, wrapped in warmth and satisfaction and lo--

Hermione shudders and jerks her hand from his face. She claws at his shoulder and his eyes snap open. They burn into her, as molten as mercury. He grinds against her and finds his rhythm again, thrusting hard. She gets her hand between them, one finger slipping into her folds. There is just enough space for her to rub her clit, and she matches her circles to the drive of Draco's cock.

He shakes and drops full onto her. Her breasts are squished against his chest, her hips are screaming from their angle, and her hand is trapped between them. She can't move, she can't breathe, she can't come, and she grabs at his hair. "Damn you, Malfoy," she growls into his ear. "Don't you dare. Don't you _dare_." If she wants to lie there, aching and unfulfilled, unsatisfied and trembling, she wouldn't be there with him. She would be at home, stroking her husband's arm as he apologizes and falls asleep. That's not why she's here. That's not what Draco gives her. 

She pulls his hair and bites the curve of his ear. "Fuck me."

He groans and bucks against her. With a grunt, he shoves up onto his hands, freeing her to move. Each thrust shakes her, breasts swaying, teeth clacking. Draco is relentless. His body slaps against hers, wet and sticky and bruising. Her cunt tightens around his cock, her legs tighten around his hips. 

His face starts to tense, mouth dropping open, skin turning red. He grimaces when he's close, teeth bared and eyes squinted. It is an ugly face, a twisted expression, and it makes her heart pound. He's burning with her, wrapped in their web of flames. She can feel the fire rushing through her blood, licking along her nerves. It's a roaring flame, it's turning her to ash, she's screaming and writhing under the burnburnburn. 

It's what she needs, what she craves. It's the heat and desperation and danger she can't find at home. It's him, it's them. It's a fire rekindled, one that may never burn out.


End file.
